


Mrs Lombard

by xxSparksxx



Series: And Then There Were Two [7]
Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M, Minor Injuries, reference to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 11:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6655891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSparksxx/pseuds/xxSparksxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“<em>I got pulled into a job,</em>” Philip says. “<em>Sort of dragged in, you might say.</em>” He pauses, and she hears something on the other end of the line, someone else speaking. “<em>Sure,</em>” Philip says to whoever it is. “<em>Listen, Vera, I’ll be fine, so don’t worry about me. But I took a couple of hits, and I can’t drive the car tonight. And I don’t want the neighbours to see me coming home covered in blood.</em>”</p><p>Vera inhales. “I beg your pardon,” she says sharply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mrs Lombard

**Author's Note:**

> I was prompted _“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”_ by an anon on tumblr. This is the result, because Vera ran with it and wouldn’t let me do a short ficlet response!! As ever, many thanks to rainpuddle13 and mmmuses for hand-holding and beta-reading.

The telephone rings just as Vera is putting on her coat.

“Just leave it,” suggests Peggy. She’s slumped in a chair on the other side of the room, heels kicked off and glasses up on her forehead. She’s been run off her feet all day. So has Vera; it’s a busy doctor’s surgery, a near-constant stream of patients in and out, the telephone ringing, letters to be typed and, for Peggy, prescriptions to be filled and checked. “It can’t be anyone important,” Peggy adds. 

“It might be a patient, and it’s only a minute past six,” Vera says, settling her coat on and glancing longingly at the door. Usually Peggy is serious about her work, careful and competent in the way she handles patients and medications, but it’s been a long day. December has set in with a vengeance, and with it has come an onslaught of illnesses. Peggy assures Vera that it’s no worse than usual for the time of year but Vera, who has only been working at the surgery for a month, is very glad that her working day ends at six and that she, unlike the doctors, is never on call overnight.

Peggy groans dramatically, and Vera smiles as she crosses the room, back towards the desk and the ringing telephone. She likes Peggy, who is older than Vera by a good twenty years but has no tendency to try to mother her. Peggy is full of common sense, full of laughter, and easy to get along with. Vera wouldn’t say they’re friends, exactly, but they’ve already fallen into an easy, companionable way of working together. The others here are friendly too, in a very American way that Vera hasn’t got used to yet. Two doctors, one quite elderly now and the other younger and more energetic, and a nurse, who’s inclined to flirting with any eligible man who walks through the door. But harmless enough. It’s the patients who try Vera’s tolerance most; snot-nosed young children, pompous old men, people who insist that she must magic them an appointment out of thin air. She’s getting used to it, and after all she’s expert at presenting a mask to the world, but sometimes she goes home and just has to let all the frustrations out.

Philip is spectacularly good at helping her do that. Even now, as she reaches the phone, she thinks with anticipation of the evening ahead. Supper with Philip, perhaps an hour or so relaxing together in the sitting room, and then bed. Philip, she’s been delighted to discover, is quite a good cook. He seems to like preparing a meal for her, on the days when he gets back before she does. He seems to like _caring_ for her, and Vera hasn’t quite come to terms with that yet, but she’s trying.

Vera picks up the phone. “Dr Cartland’s surgery,” she says. “How may I help you?”

“ _Vera._ ”

“Philip!” Vera glances guiltily at Peggy, who smiles indulgently. “You know I’m not meant to take personal calls here,” Vera scolds him, turning away from Peggy to give herself the illusion of privacy. “You barely caught me, I was about to leave.”

Philip chuckles, but it’s a thin sound, and it makes Vera alert. “ _I know,_ ” he says. “ _I won’t be long, I promise. I just wanted to let you know I won’t be able to make it home tonight._ ” It’s the phone line, she thinks, that’s making him sound like that. Except it’s a good clear line, usually. She clutches the handset and thinks rapidly. He hadn’t mentioned a job today, but he’d said something about a meeting, across the city somewhere. “ _Vera?_ ” Philip says. “ _Did you hear me, darling?_ ”

“What’s happened?” she asks, making herself loosen her grasp on the phone. “Tell me.” He might lie to her, of course. He might do that. And there’s no way she can force him to tell her the truth, if he chooses to lie, not only because she’s never yet been able to make him do anything he doesn’t want to do, but because she’s not alone here. Peggy is just across the room, and will be able to hear every word Vera says. All Vera can do is keep her words innocent, and hope Philip will be honest.

“ _I got pulled into a job,_ ” Philip says. “ _Sort of dragged in, you might say._ ” He pauses, and she hears something on the other end of the line, someone else speaking. “ _Sure,_ ” Philip says to whoever it is. “ _Listen, Vera, I’ll be fine, so don’t worry about me. But I took a couple of hits, and I can’t drive the car tonight. And I don’t want the neighbours to see me coming home covered in blood._ ”

Vera inhales. “I beg your pardon,” she says sharply. Philip curses; he hadn’t meant to say that, she gathers. “Say that again, Philip.” Covered in blood. A couple of hits. The two statements are at odds with each other, but she knows, instinctively, which is true.

“ _Vera…_ ”

“Where are you?” Vera demands, interrupting him. She finds a pencil and a piece of paper on the desk. “What’s the address, Philip?”

“ _There’s no need._ ” Philip is silent for a few moments, and Vera waits. Eventually Philip sighs. “ _You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?_ ”

“No,” Vera says. “I have a pencil. What’s the address?” He gives it to her, and Vera notes it down carefully. It’s a long way across the city; over five miles. It will take her an hour to get there on foot, if not longer. It’s too far for a taxi, too expensive. Still, she has to go. She has to see for herself that his injuries, whatever they are, aren’t severe. There’ll be a bus, probably. Peggy will know. And when she does get there…well, Vera can drive, so she can bring Philip home in the car. His concern for the neighbours is valid, but she’ll think of something. “Alright,” Vera says. “Stay there. I’ll come to get you.” Philip begins to protest, but Vera puts the telephone down and disconnects the call. For a moment she stands there, coat half on, piece of paper held in her hand. Covered in blood, she thinks. Well, she’ll see soon enough.

“What is it, hon?” Peggy asks. She’s risen from her chair, and now she comes across the room and rests a hand on Vera’s shoulder. “Something happened to your husband?”

“Yes,” Vera says absently. Then she shakes herself. “Yes, an accident at work,” she says. Less is often more, when it comes to lies, so she doesn’t elaborate. “I need to get to him,” she tells Peggy. “He says not to worry, but he can’t drive himself home tonight, and I don’t like the thought of him in somebody’s spare bed when I can perfectly well drive the car and bring him back.”

“No, of course not.” Peggy is full of sympathy. Vera’s hackles rise; she hates sympathy. But then Peggy plucks the piece of paper out of Vera’s hands, and the sympathy is erased by Peggy’s normal, common sense approach to things. “Now, that’s a long way to go,” she says. “You know, Frank’s got a car. He’ll probably drive you over there, if you ask. Save you having to catch a couple different buses.” Peggy gives Vera the address back, and then she goes to the door beside the reception desk. She knocks, but doesn’t wait for an answer; they both know there’s no patient in there. “Hey, Frank,” Peggy greets the doctor within. “You got time to take Vera across to Hell’s Kitchen? Her husband’s had some kind of accident, and Vera wants to run over there and bring him home.”

“Oh, sure,” says Frank Gibson, coming to stand in the doorway. “Sure, I’m just about done here anyway. Give me five minutes, Vera, and then I’ll be happy to drive you over.”

While Frank finishes up some paperwork, Vera buttons her coat, ties the belt, and puts on her gloves and hat. She tucks away her fear, deep inside, where it won’t show. There is no time for it now, and it’s a ridiculous fear anyway. Philip had been well enough to speak, well enough to telephone and warn her not to expect him. She has to trust that he wouldn’t lie to her about serious injuries, that he was just joking about being covered in blood. She has to _trust_. But it’s been so long since anyone looks at her the way Philip does, touches her the way he does. And nobody has ever _cared_ for her the way he does. She’s ridiculously afraid of losing him.

But he exaggerated the amount of blood, and he’ll be fine. She won’t lose him. Not now. Not because of this. She refuses to even entertain the fear, and so she buries it deep and pretends, to Peggy and Frank, that she’s not particularly worried. That all she wants is to take her husband home to save him sleeping on a spare bed or, worse, a couch.

Frank is ready quickly, and soon enough Vera is in his car. He tries to make conversation, and Vera responds at first, but she can’t keep it up. Usually she’s good at this, but now she’s tired from a long week and worried about Philip. To his credit, Frank seems not to take offence at her slow replies and eventual lapse into silence. He stops talking and lets her be. The traffic is hell, but Vera expected that, and Frank, a New Yorker born and bred, seems to know all sorts of short cuts and detours that she couldn’t hope to learn in a month of Sundays. It doesn’t cut much off the time, but she thinks it helps.

When they reach the address, Frank peers through the car windscreen and looks doubtful. “You sure this is it?” he asks.

“That’s what he said,” Vera says, checking the piece of paper again. It’s the right place, the right address, but she understands Frank’s hesitation. They’ve arrived at a bar, and not a particularly appealing one. It’s not a nice street, either; nothing like her lovely new home, in Brooklyn. This is a seedier part of New York, a more dangerous part. She’s not surprised Philip’s found his way here. No doubt he can find work here without needing to do much looking. Vera tries to make a joke out of it. “Probably his accident involves a quantity of whisky,” she says, giving Frank a confident smile. “Thank you for the lift. It was very kind of you. I’ll see you on Monday at the surgery.”

“Wait – wait –,” Frank reaches out to stop her opening the car door. Vera stifles her impatience, her irritation. He means well. “Do you want me to wait until you’ve found him?” Frank asks her. “Or come in and check him over?”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Vera says, with a shake of her head. “But thank you.” She gets out of the car and closes the door firmly. She’s aware of Frank watching her, as she crosses the pavement and pushes open the door of the bar, but she doesn’t care if he lingers or if he goes quickly, now. She’s here, and in a moment or two she will see for herself what state Philip is in.

The bar isn’t full, but all the patrons are men, and they all turn or lift their heads and look at her when she walks in. Vera withstands it; she’s been looked at like this since she was old enough to wear her first brassiere. The floor is slightly sticky under her feet. The windows look as though they haven’t been washed in a year. The smell of alcohol and sweat is thick in the air. Vera holds herself erect and walks over to the bar. The bartender is a thick-set man, going bald, with a nose that looks as though it’s been broken a number of times. He doesn’t look particularly welcoming, but hardly threatening or fear-inducing. 

“I’m Mrs Lombard,” she says to him. “My husband is here, I believe?”

“Ah, sure,” nods the bartender. His accent is pronounced; Irish, like Philip. “He said you were coming. He’s out back. Through there.” He gestures at a door behind the bar. “Down the hall and on your left,” he says. “You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” says Vera. Her mouth is dry, her stomach full of butterflies. She squashes them ruthlessly. She has no patience for that, no time for indulging her fear. She goes behind the bar, opens the door, and finds herself in a darkened hallway. There’s a single light fitting, but the bulb is dim. Vera’s almost grateful for it; at least she doesn’t have to see how filthy the floor is. Down the hall and on the left, the bartender had said. There are three doors, but only one on the left. She crosses the hallway swiftly, pauses for a moment with her hand on the door handle, and then opens the door.

Philip is there, on the other side of the room. He’s sitting on a couch that’s seen better days, one leg propped up on a stool. His jacket and waistcoat have been discarded; his white shirt has a bloodstain on it, spread across his side and under his arm. His foot, she sees, is wrapped in a dirty-looking towel. He has a split lip. He’s not quite _covered_ in blood, but there’s more than enough of it. She can understand why he didn’t want to try to get home, now. Not looking like this. The neighbours _would_ talk. But it could be worse.

He’s not alone; two other men are with him, seated on chairs. There’s a low table between them and the couch, and a battered set of playing cards on the table, as well as a handful of coins and a couple of notes. Poker, Vera sees. Not high stakes. Just something to pass the time. 

One of the men jumps to his feet, hand going to his pocket as if he’s reaching for a weapon. He’s thin and tall, much younger than Philip. Younger even than Vera; he seems hardly more than a boy, barely grown into manhood. There’s a look of bravado about him that she doesn’t like. She eyes him coldly, then looks at Philip, who’s watching her with a strange, assessing gaze. As if he’s waiting to see what she’ll do, how she’ll react.

“Covered in blood,” she says, dryly. “Really, Philip.”

“Slip of the tongue,” Philip shrugs. “You got here fast.” Vera enters the room properly and closes the door behind her. “Sit down, Wilson,” Philip adds, speaking to the man who stood up. “This is Vera. My wife.”

“Oh,” says the man, Wilson. “Right.” He looks her up and down, a frank, appreciative look that makes Vera’s hackles rise. “You done alright, Lombard,” Wilson says approvingly. Vera meets Philip’s eyes; he’s irritated, she sees, but not enough to say anything. Not enough to correct Wilson’s assumption. Either that, or he wants to see what _she’ll_ say. 

“Shut up, Wilson,” says the other man, before Vera can find a response. This man is older, middle-aged, with a friendlier look. “Evenin’, Mrs,” he says. “Lombard’s not too bad. You want help gettin’ him to the car?”

“I’d rather look him over first,” says Vera. That causes a chuckle, but she’s serious. She moves over to the couch and slaps Philip’s hand away when he reaches for her. “Sit still and be quiet,” she tells him. The corner of his mouth lifts, but he holds up his hands in submission. Vera pulls off her gloves and undoes the towel around his foot. It’s as filthy as it seemed from the doorway, and Vera huffs and throws it at the other man, the one whose name she doesn’t know yet. “Get me a _clean_ towel,” she snaps at him. “And hot water. Boiled, preferably. Bandages if you have them. Don’t any of you know the first thing about first aid?”

“Now, wait a minute,” the man begins. 

Philip interrupts him. “Do what she says, Morgan,” he says. He speaks softly, but there’s that dangerous undercurrent to it that Vera knows well. His mouth is smiling, but his eyes are sharp. “We all stand a better chance of getting out of this room alive, if you do,” he adds, smile curving into a sharp grin. A shark-grin, all white teeth and promise. Vera feels warmed by his praise, even under these circumstances. Because that is what he’s done, he’s praised her. He’s made sure these men know she’s not to be trifled with; that she, like her husband, is dangerous.

“Sure,” Morgan agrees, after a long, tense moment. “Sure. I’ll see what I can do, Mrs.” He leaves the room. Wilson stays where he is, but his expression has changed; there’s less lasciviousness in it now, more curiosity.

The wound on Philip’s foot isn’t bleeding anymore, she sees. That’s a relief. And it’s only a flesh wound, or so she thinks. It looks as though the cut hasn’t gone into muscle, or worse. Not that she’s an expert, but she’s done her fair share of patching up injuries, both in the home as a child and in schools as an adult. It’s a neat enough cut, too, no ragged edges. But it’s long and awkwardly placed. It runs from his ankle down along the side of his foot, then it trails off almost under his toes. There’s a little dirt in the wound, but not much. Philip must have tried to wash it, but the dirty towel won’t have helped.

“Knife?” she asks him. Philip nods.

“Bastard had it hidden,” he tells her. “Down on the ground, thought he was out, and then he whipped out a blade and tried to slice my foot off.” Vera winces, and Philip shrugs a shoulder. The movement is stiff. His bloody shirt is concealing other injuries, she guesses. Hopefully just bruises, nothing more. “I was careless,” he admits. “It won’t happen again. My shoe got the worst of it, anyway.”

“Hmm.” Vera finds the shoe in question, left on the floor. When she picks it up, she sees the leather is slashed right through. She drops the shoe again. There’s a trace of blood on her fingers, congealed and sticky. Vera makes a face, but doesn’t complain. “Your side?” she asks him next. 

“Not mine,” Philip says. Vera doesn’t quite believe him, but she’s trying to trust him, so she just nods. If there’s any sort of injury, she’ll find out sooner or later. “It’s just the foot and my lip,” Philip adds. “It’s not bad. But I didn’t have a spare shirt, so I didn’t want to get someone to drive me.” He would certainly present quite the spectacle in their quiet, respectable street in Brooklyn. And his foot injury means he can’t drive, of course. It could be worse. It could be so much worse. Vera perches on the low table and touches his lip with her thumb. Philip’s glance at her is warm, but fleeting. She knows he won’t show more, not here. Not with Wilson here, and Morgan back any moment. He can’t show weakness.

And neither can she, because her weakness would reflect on him.

Vera takes her thumb from his lip and shakes her head. “A fine mess,” she remarks. “Was anyone else hurt?”

Wilson had been injured too, it transpires. He’s reluctant to say anything, but Philip has no such qualms. Bruises on his arm, he tells Vera, and a stab wound to his side. Vera rises and goes to stand before Wilson, who slouches in his chair and looks up at her grumpily. She can see blood on his shirt, now she’s looking, though it’s harder to see than the blood on Philip. Wilson’s shirt is dark blue, but the bloodstain is darker still, black against the fabric. His wounds will need looking at too and, though Vera has no obligation to him, she’s has something to prove here. She won’t let them think of her any less strong than Philip, for his sake as well as for her own. 

“Well?” she says after a moment, when Wilson doesn’t speak. “Jacket and shirt off, Mr Wilson. I can hardly clean and dress your cuts through your shirt, can I?”

“I don’t need no doctorin’,” Wilson insists. There’s a mulish look about him. Stubborn, Vera assesses. The kind to soldier on through injury until he drops. She’s always thought there was something rather childish about that, about trying to pretend that an injury doesn’t exist. She’s just trying to decide what approach to take when the door opens to readmit Morgan. He’s carrying a pile of towels that are old and stained, but are at least clean. There’s a roll of bandaging on top that looks brand new, and she’s pleased to see it.

“Here, Mrs,” he says, thrusting the pile at her. “Hot water’s coming.”

“Thank you, Mr Morgan,” says Vera. “Very kind. Some coffee wouldn’t go amiss, either.” She turns back to Wilson, effectively dismissing Morgan. She catches a glimpse of Philip’s dark smirk, from the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t react to it. She’s acting a part here, just as she acts a part every day in the surgery. But this part is, perhaps, a little more true to herself. “Now, Mr Wilson, shirt off,” she says. Wilson opens his mouth to protest and Vera huffs an irritated sigh. “Really, Mr Wilson,” she snaps, “if I was going to hurt you, I wouldn’t do it with a towel and a bowl of hot water.” Philip makes a sound, a half-smothered snort of amusement, and Vera glances over at him. They look at each other for a moment, and she knows he’s what he’s thinking. Just this once, she knows. Yes, she thinks, she could hurt Wilson with a towel and a bowl of water. She’s done more with less, before now. 

“Fine,” Wilson mutters. He takes off his jacket and unbuttons his shirt with angry jerks of his hands that threaten to send buttons flying. Vera picks through the towels to find the least stained, sets one or two aside, and then takes off her hat and coat. 

“Good day at work?” Philip asks idly. He seems thoroughly amused by the whole situation, but Vera can’t bring herself to be irritated with him for it. Not in the circumstances, not when she’d been so afraid and is so _relieved_ now by the relative mildness of his injury. She’s sure it hurts, of course, and it’ll be interesting to see how he gets around for a few weeks while it heals, but it could have been worse. So Vera can’t be irritated by the enjoyment he’s obviously gaining from all this. Not at the moment, at any rate.

“Not anything to write home about,” she answers him, crouching down in front of Wilson to take off the filthy bandage that somebody has wrapped around his torso. “Still,” Vera adds, glancing over her shoulder at Philip, “nobody threw up on me, so I’ll count myself lucky. Poor Mattie had to change her uniform.” 

“ _Ouch_ ,” Wilson hisses, as Vera has to tug a little to separate bandage from flesh. The blood has dried and acted as an adhesive, and though she’s careful, removing the bandage makes the wound bleed again. It’s deeper than Philip’s cut, more of a stab than a slash.

“Sorry,” she says. “I need – oh, Mr Morgan, good.” A bowl of hot water is set on the table beside her, and Morgan holds out a cup of steaming coffee. He’s got a peculiar look on his face, like he’s not sure what to make of her. That’s all to the good, as far as Vera’s concerned. She takes a gulp of coffee and then starts cleaning Wilson’s wound. “I can clean and dress this, but I think it needs looking at by a doctor,” she tells him. 

“I don’t need no –,”

“Mr Morgan, you’ll make sure of it?” Vera interrupts, looking up at Morgan. He seems more sensible to her, more likely to listen and take action if it’s needed.

“Yes, Mrs,” says Morgan with a nod. “Don’t listen to him, he’s a gobby little shite – oh, ‘scuse me, Mrs.”

“I’ve heard worse,” Vera says dryly. The amount of dirt she’s getting out of this wound is astounding. Men, she thinks incredulously. They think they can slap a bandage on something and it’ll all be fine. “Philip, start cleaning your foot, please,” she says, nudging the bowl a little closer to the centre of the table. “It’s not as bad as this, but it will get infected if you’re not careful.”

“Little spitfire, ain’t she?” Wilson laughs nervously, and Vera presses down harder on his side. “Oh, goddamn,” Wilson swears. “I didn’t mean nothin’, ma’am, just…you got spunk. I like it.”

“Don’t insult the woman who’s treating you,” retorts Vera. Spitfire and spunk, indeed. He makes her sound like a firework that goes off with a bang and scatters nothing but harmless sparks. If there’s one thing she isn’t, it’s harmless.

“Especially when the woman in question is my wife,” Philip adds. The words hang in the air. Vera finishes cleaning Wilson’s injury and puts aside the soiled towel. There’s blood and dirt on her hands, but she ignores that and picks up the cup of coffee to have a sip before she begins to re-dress the wound. Morgan inhales, as if to say something, but then lets the breath out and remains silent. Vera hides her smile, tucking it away deep inside where it can’t show. It’s a novel feeling, to be in a room full of men who recognise that she’s not quiet and sweet, not innocent and naïve. They recognise the iron hidden beneath the surface and they respect her for it. She’s never had that before, en masse like this. 

It’s Philip who gives her the confidence to be honest, to show these men a glimpse of what she’s capable of doing. Philip who’s adding fuel to the fire. He’s making it plain that she’s not just hot air, she’s got teeth and she _bites_. She feels a surge of affection for him, a surge of something that she can only suppose is some sort of love. Then she puts down her coffee and picks up the roll of bandaging.

“Don’t take this off for a few days,” she instructs Wilson. “And keep it dry, and as clean as you can. Hold this for me, please.” He holds the end of the bandage in place; he looks too apprehensive, now, to do anything but obey her. “When you take the bandage off,” she continues, “check to see if the wound looks red, or – yes, you can let go now – or if there’s pus. If there is, you go to a doctor. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wilson nods. 

“If it looks all right, then wash it with boiled water and cover it up again.” She winds the bandage one more time around his torso, and then knots it in place. Not bad, she thinks, given her last first aid training was several years ago. “There,” she says, and wipes her hands on a clean towel. Wilson reaches for his shirt and starts to put it back on, throwing her cautious glances every few moments. Vera offers him a sweet smile and then turns to Philip. He’s cleaned his foot already, and his lip too. “Do you want me to do your foot, or can you?” she asks.

“I’ll do it,” Philip says. He takes the remainder of the roll of bandaging from her. Their fingers brush; Vera feels it as keenly as any more intimate touch. One corner of his mouth tugs upwards, just a little. “Finish your coffee,” he suggests. “Then you can wash up and we’ll head home.”

“And scare all the neighbours,” she says, laughing. But his jacket will hide most of it, and his socks are dark, so even if he can’t put his shoe on, the sock will hide the whiteness of the bandage. It will be good enough to get them from the car to the house. She watches as Philip bandages his foot, noting how competently he does it. He’s had practice, she supposes. Not something she wants to think about, but at least now he’ll have help, if and when he gets injured again. 

“Coffee good, Mrs?” Morgan asks her. “You want anything else?” He, like Wilson, seems eager to please now. Vera is almost tempted to take advantage of it, but she won’t. There’s no sense in pushing her luck.

“It’s very good,” she says, and drains the cup. “All I need now is a hand getting my husband to the car.” She puts the cup down and uses the remains of the hot water to clean her hands. Blood and dirt turn the water murky, and she longs for soap, but she’s clean enough to get home. She can have a proper wash there. She uses the last clean towel to wipe away the lingering traces of dried blood, and to dry her hands. Then, as Philip carefully puts his sock on over his new bandage, Vera puts on her coat and hat, and makes sure her gloves are in her pocket. 

Morgan helps Philip out to the car, out behind the back of the bar. Vera follows behind them, part amused and part concerned by the curses that Philip emits whenever he has to put weight through his bad foot. Getting him into the house will be interesting. She rather suspects he’s going to be a terrible invalid. But at least it’s the weekend now, and she’ll be at home for two days. She can think of a few ways to keep him resting in bed while the worst of it heals.

“Thank you, Mrs,” Morgan says to her, when Philip is in the passenger seat of the car and Vera is about to get behind the wheel. “You done us a good turn today. You come have a drink on me some time, eh?”

Vera raises her eyebrows and glances at Philip, to see if he’ll give her any cue to how she ought to respond to this. But he’s no help, his expression all carefully-crafted blankness, and Vera looks back at Morgan and nods at him.

“I’ll do that, Mr Morgan,” she says. “Take care of that boy. And for goodness’ sake,” she adds, “try not to let my husband get sliced up by knives another time?”

Morgan grins at her. It’s not a particularly pleasant sight; he’s missing two teeth. But he means well, and Vera is too well-controlled to show any distaste.

“Yes, Mrs,” he agrees. “Drive safe. So long, Lombard.” He holds the door for Vera, and closes it when she’s safely in the car. Vera turns to Philip again, and his blankness dissolves into an intent, pleased look.

“When we get home,” he says, “I want to fuck you. Mrs Lombard.” Vera smiles slowly, and reaches across to take his hand, just for a few moments. “I’ll never get tired of seeing you boss around grown men, twice your size,” he murmurs. “You know they’re going to be talking about you all night, trying to work out what could make you so dangerous.”

“Good.” Vera releases his hand and starts the engine. “I didn’t want to let you down,” she admits, hoping the rumble of the engine will let her words escape unheard. But luck is never on her side when it comes to Philip’s hearing.

“You never could,” he tells her. He leans across, and Vera meets him halfway for a brief kiss. “My Vera,” Philip says fondly, when he settles back into his seat. “Come on, let’s go home.”


End file.
